Can't Speak Orlesian
by anxiousgeek
Summary: They're talking about him, Cullen is sure of that. He just doesn't know what they're saying. The Inquisitor speaks Orlesian though. Obligatory Winter Palace fic. Cullen/F!Trevelyan


They were talking about him, that much he was sure of.

Cullen had been surrounded by Orlesian courtiers on and off since he'd arrive and was only currently granted a reprieve as some form of entertainment was performed on the dance floor. They hadn't gone far though, mostly they had grouped together to look over the balcony and talk.

About him

In Orlesian.

He didn't understand a word of it, only caught his name from time to time. The Inquisitors. Something that he thought might be 'Ferelden'.

Was he really that interesting?

"You're alone?"

Cullen smiles, sighs in relief, as the Inquisitor comes to stand beside him. She looks a little worse for wear, the evening wearing o and things becoming a little desperate and dangerous both on and off the dancefloor. He sucks in a breath at the blood on her collar, the bruise blooming beneath her right eye.

Evelyn smiles though and it helps.

"Are things...progressing?" he asks.

"Yes, but not as quickly as I would like," she huffs. "I dislike returning here every so often to court approval."

Cullen nodded, agreeing, distracted by the little spirals of dark hair that had come loose from her updo. That and the fact that he had caught his name again from his group of...admirers.

"You speak Orlesian don't you?" he asks. He can remember her telling him that, he's sure of it.

"Yes, and Antivan, Ost, Common tongue and a little Nervarren – Cassandra is helping with that," she says.

"What are they saying about me?" He nods to the group of Orlesian nobles and Evelyn chuckles.

"You want me to eavesdrop for you?"

"They're talking about me! I know they're talking about me."

He can see Evelyn is trying not to laugh and he feels suitably chagrined. But they're still talking about him and now the dancefloor is empty they've turned his way to look too. They're hardly subtle and he wonders how anyone gets away with anything is Orlais if this is how the game is played.

The Inquisitor hasn't replied and when he looks at her he realises she's listening in to their conversation.

She smiles but doesn't speak. It frustrating at first but after a minute or two, more than he can take.

"What? What is it?" he hisses.

"It's all good," she tells him. "They like you, you intrigue them."

"Intrigue them."

"The young woman in the yellow mask struggles to believe that you are Ferelden, the gentleman in the green doesn't care as you are as handsome as any Orlesian. More so. The one in the brown stripes would take you to his bed now if he could."

Cullen blushes bright red and isn't sure if Evelyn is pulling his leg or not.

"Oh, but he had several hundred invested on various outcomes of the game, including whether or not his cousin will marry the Countess Marie DuBouir."

"I have no idea who that is," he manages to get out.

"I think she was in a green gown in the garden with Dorian earlier. I'm unsure."

She shrugs, it's not important he muses but he's having trouble processing the information.

"What are they saying about you?" he deflects.

She chuckles.

"Nothing, I am well known, no longer a mystery at this point. They are keen to meet and court my approval but it is your attention they want," she's quieter now as the small group seems to have shifted closer. "I have my own admirers, these are yours."

"Makers breath."

"They don't want to hurt you, Commander." He huffs. "They mostly just want to bed you."

And with that, she skips away towards Varric and Dorian who have appeared by the stairs.

He swears again as his admirers return to his side.

By time the Inquisitor returns a second time the group is larger and he is even more frustrated and flustered. The conversation flows around him but doesn't really involve him. Despite the fact that it's about him. These Orlesians are, he's had his backside groped and one woman has wrapped herself around him several times. He knows they speak common tongue but they aren't swayed by his firm refusals.

So when Evelyn returns, sees his distress and says a few words in Orlesian to the group, he's more than a little grateful. Especially when those words mean she can pull him away from the group.

"What did you say to them?"

"That I require your attention on Inquisition matters," she says, "They respect the Inquisition, and me."

"But not me."

"Perhaps, respect is not the right word."

He pinches the bridge his nose for a moment, the looks at her. The bruise is gone, healed or hidden he's not sure. The blood too. But her hair is still in slight disarray and he loves the way it looks on her. The perfect outfit but the edges a little ruffled. It's very much Evelyn.

"Are you well?" he asks, "how goes it?"

She doesn't answer.

She's leaning back slightly, the flush on her cheeks becoming deeper and deeper, a blush that spreads down her neck and into her collar.

"Inquisitor?"

A pause and then she gasps.

"Lady Trevelyan?"

She still doesn't answer and then he realises she's listening to his admirers again and that they're talking about him again. He's not learnt any Orlesian in the last two hours but he knows his name when he hears it.

"What are they saying?"

"I can't say," she manages to get out, the words strangled.

"You can't or won't?" he asks.

"I can't, not, here, not, it's not bad, nothing bad, all good, but not, not for here."

He wants to push, he rarely sees his Inquisitor quite so worked up, but she seems adamant that not to tell him and she's still listening. Cullen looks over her shoulder at the group who are laughing and talking and he's wondering what it is they're saying that Evelyn cannot.

"I...have to go," she says suddenly and she's almost past him before he stops her. "Perhaps I'll tell you another time."

"Perhaps?!"

She pulls away, and slips away and dammit the group returns to his side, one courtier feeling the muscles in his arm and another offering him a drink.

He pulls his arm away but takes the drink, trying to find Evelyn in the room.

"What does soumette mean?" he asks Leiliana a little later, once Empress Celene has been saved, her cousin killed and Briana installed as her advisor.

He had been listening more carefully to his admirers, trying to catch words and memorise them. To try and figure out what they were saying without the Inquisitor translating. He found an Orlesian in the library but it wasn't very useful. It didn't even list the numbers.

"To submit," the spymaster answers with a quirk of her eyebrow.

"Ah," he fumbles, trying to remember what else he had heard. "And neuf pouces?"

Leliana shakes her head.

"Your pronunciation is terrible Commander," she says with a smile. "But it means nine inches."

He coughs then, stutters a little, and is unsure whether he should continue.

"Is there more?" she asks, and he knows he blushing deeply now. He's definitely glad he can't speak Orlesian that's for sure but none of this has really solved the mystery of what Evelyn had heard. He decided he doesn't need to know anymore and thanks Leliana for her time.

"Coucher avec," she says as he turns to walk away, "means to sleep with." He can feel his cheeks burning now. "For future reference," she adds with a musical laugh that follows him out of the room even as he mumbles his thanks.

He finds Evelyn out on the balcony of the main hall, leaning over the short wall and looking down into the gardens below. He's tempted to leave her to her well-earned solitude but a sniff has him walking right up to her, determined, only to falter when he reached her side.

Another sniff and swipe of her hand across her eyes have him talking.

"Inquisitor?"

She doesn't move, doesn't react or turn to face him until he places a hand on her shoulder and says her name.

"Evelyn?"

"Cullen," she greets him, turning to face him finally.

"What's happened?" he asks but she shakes her head.

"Nothing. I am tired. That is all."

It wasn't, he knows, he knows Evelyn but he lets the matter drop for the moment. The music drifts in while they are quiet and he offers him her hand.

"Dance with me?"

She laughs.

"Why not."

Evelyn steps into his embrace easily, one hand on her waist the other wrapped around her small hand and Cullen sighs. It's nice, to have this moment to hold someone. To hold her. His feelings for her have always been a confused swirl of something undefinable and he'd put it down the lyrium withdrawal for a long time but right, not, holding her while they danced slowly on the balcony he felt a little clearer about her.

About everything.

"What was it the Orlesians said that had you running from my company?" he whispers in her ear.

She presses closer then, to his surprise, and he wraps both arms around her.

"Among other scandalous things they had decided that we were not well matched," she says in a quiet voice. "That our children would be beautiful but ultimately we should not wed."

That, that he had not expected.

Cullen steps back and looks at the tears in her eyes and almost kisses her.

"Our children will be beautiful, they are correct about that," he says with a smile, the flushes bright red when he realises what he's said.

"Will be?" she asks taking a step back.

"Ah, well, that is to say..."

He doesn't get to finish, or even really start his explanation when she kisses him. Just briefly on the lips before settling back into his embrace.

"Dance with me a little more," she says.

He nods and they dance but he's full of questions and she full of answers.

"Tell me, is what else they said true?"

"Like what?" he tries to pull back to look at her but she's much stronger than she looks and keeps him in position as they move around.

"You know exactly what," she says and he can hear the giggle, "I've been speaking to Leliana."

"I can neither confirm nor deny," he says, laughing himself. "You'll have to find out for yourself."

She pulls back, still laughing, smiling, eyes bright and cheeks flushed. Placing her hands on his hips she pulls their bodies together.

"I will do just that."


End file.
